


Took 45 Minutes to Get All Dressed Up

by MachaSWicket



Series: Flawless [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Allusions to smut, F/M, Flawless, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:07:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2567639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  <i>Honestly, her breathing is still a little unsteady, though she chooses to blame that on the last five minute frenzy of getting dressed and down to the car, and not, you know, certain *other* recent activities involving Oliver.</i> Written as part of the Flawless series, but each story can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Took 45 Minutes to Get All Dressed Up

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: to youguysimserious & katelinnea for their patience, since I'm inundating them both with Arrow fic at a stupid pace right now. :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to DC and Warner Bros, not me. :(

Felicity makes it to the sleek silver car with one minute to spare, but it’s a close call. Oliver is right behind her, his hand low on her hip, and his touch is still so distracting that she nearly forgot her little silver clutch on the table beside her door.

She’s a bit flustered, her hands flittering about uselessly as she lets Oliver open the door like the well-mannered former billionaire (and current probably like millionaire? though she tries not to think about that because it’s intimidating and/or strange, depending on her mood) that he is. She slides into the car, flashing a vague smile to the driver -- John is home tonight, which is good for John and less good for Felicity, since he can always calm her down. And she could use some calming, what with Oliver’s daft idea for them to walk hand-in-hand into the fundraiser at the history museum as some sort of coming out party.

What the press will probably write about her -- it makes her hyperventilate if she thinks about it for too long. Which means Oliver has been in full distraction mode for days. It’s actually kind of sweet. 

Well, the _intent_ is sweet -- his methods of distraction are something else entirely. 

Oliver slides closer to her and pulls the car door closed. He greets the driver, then turns on the audio, letting some classical music fill the silence before turning to give her a reassuring look.

Honestly, her breathing is still a little unsteady, though she chooses to blame that on the last five minute frenzy of getting dressed and down to the car, and not, you know, certain _other_ recent activities involving Oliver. And his mouth. She flushes and looks away from him, her fingers worrying the shimmery silver fabric of her clutch. And then she frowns, lifting her hand to examine the deep indigo polish on her nails. Dammit.

“You smudged my nail polish,” Felicity says, frowning down at the little misshapen dent in her pinky nail. It’s smooshed and dented, with little wavy lines that suggest it was pressed up against fabric. The smudge looks terrible up close.

“Seriously?” Oliver murmurs, leaning closer and giving her an incredibly smug grin.

Which, okay, is well and truly earned, all orgasms considered. But still-- “I told you my nails were wet,” she complains. 

“Your nails, huh?” Oliver says evenly, keeping his voice low enough that he _probably_ won’t be overheard by their driver. 

Still, Felicity can feel herself blushing, which is _stupid_ , considering they’ve had an impressive amount of sex the last couple weeks, and she’s now quite familiar with his knack for describing all manner of things he likes about her, or wants to do to her, or has just _enjoyed_ doing to her. _Intimately_ familiar. She’s not sure why she thought he’d keep his thoughts to himself just because a _total stranger_ was sitting five feet away from them. 

“Oliver,” she grumbles, but it’s half-hearted at best. The way he talks to her when they’re in bed -- well, okay, in bed, on her couch, the occasional countertop, the floor, up against the wall in her entryway, and one particularly inventive time half-on, half-off of a ceramic sink… But his tone of voice when they’re together? It gets her hotter than should be possible, considering he’s not even touching her. 

Felicity is kind of surprised at herself that she doesn’t find her amped up reaction to him embarrassing, but it helps that she knows he wants her just as badly as she wants him. She knows he _loves_ her. She knows the sex is at least _good_ for him (though she’s not sure it can possibly be as good for him as it is for her, because Oliver? Is enthusiastic and overwhelming -- and, you know, _endlessly descriptive_ \-- and a thousand other adjectives that add up to the best sex she’s ever had or even imagined could exist in the real world). 

So yeah. They’re together and they’re sleeping together and it’s all good. Very, very, _very_ good. Except for the part where he can still do this to her, still leave her breathless and kind of shaky and stupidly turned on with a look or a word or a careful touch. 

Oliver bends closer and presses a hot, wet kiss along her collarbone, then smirks at her. “It’s not my fault. I never touched your fingers.”

Shivering, she closes her eyes and remembers his looming, smirking figure standing before her, remembers the way she’d held her arms in the air above her head to emphasize her _hands off_ warning, remembers that he’d shrugged, all self-assured insolence, and said, “So keep your hands off me, then,” and tugged her hips to the edge of the couch, dropping to his knees as he reached for her panties.

She remembers how difficult it was to keep from reaching for him, to keep from running her fingers through his hair, or clutching at his shoulders, or yanking him up and on top of her, hours of hair styling and makeup application be damned. God, it had been delicious torture, her hands shaking and hovering near his biceps, where his arms were tucked beneath her splayed thighs, one warm palm pressed on her belly to keep her still.

She doesn’t _quite_ remember how she’d smudged the nail polish. 

And probably her nail polish isn’t what she should be focusing on, because _who_ is even going to see the smudge on her left pinky nail? Felicity realizes she’s being irrational, but he _knows_ she has a thing about her nails. He’s commented on it many times, and he knows how nervous she is about tonight. About all of this _rich people_ pomp and circumstance.

Well, she’s nervous about _most_ of it -- but she _loves_ her dress. It’s a deep red, almost maroon; sexy but not scandalous or skimpy; and lined to prevent what Thea called flashbulb porn. Felicity had purposefully _not_ asked any follow up questions, but she assumed unlined dresses turned a little see through sometimes. Horrifying thought. Like, _actual_ nightmare, since in some of Felicity’s nightmares, she’s walking around MIT naked. Though, to be fair, these days she does have some _non_ -terrible dreams involving nakedness. But that’s kind of beside the point. Which is: just the thought of a million pictures being taken of her, a million angles until they find the most unflattering one to splash all over the tabloid sites… it makes her nauseated.

“Hey,” Oliver says, trailing his hand down her leg, his fingers dancing along the ankle straps of her very high silvery heels before heading north again. “You look spectacular, Felicity,” he says, his warm palm landing on her knee, just below the hemline of her dress. 

She knows it’s not a coincidence that he says the exact same thing he’d said when he’d walked into her living room an hour earlier than she expected to find her in just her fancy, dress-appropriate underwear. Her makeup and hair were done, her feet propped up on the coffee table and hands carefully flat against her thighs because of the aforementioned wet nail polish. She knows he’s trying to make her think about the feel of his tongue leaving hot wet trails along her hip instead of the press, instead of the thousands of pictures that will be taken of her really, really soon.

Felicity is impressed that even though she knows exactly what he’s doing, it’s still working. He’s stupidly talented.

She leans closer to press a light kiss to his jaw, relishing the now-familiar sensation of his stubble against her lips. She loves that she can tell when he last clipped his beard just by touch now -- stiff and scratchy the few hours afterwards, and softer and potentially a lethal tickling weapon after 12 or 18 hours. In the middle of the night, he presses his mouth and his whiskers all over her body, leaving little pink patches of tenderness for her to remember him by in the shower the next morning.

Or, you know, _right now_ , every time she presses her thighs together.

Which she’s doing more than she should, because of his sexy bedroom voice and his hand on her thigh and the delightful things he did to her not very long ago in her living room.

It takes a lot of effort to make herself focus on what he said instead of the way he keeps making her feel. “You’re not exactly an impartial judge,” she points out, and her voice is more unsteady than she would like.

His fingers start moving, drawing soft little patterns on the inside of her thigh, edging upwards. “You’re right,” he agrees, turning to face her more fully. “I’m pretty partial to you.”

Her stomach does a low flip, which is silly. But she honestly never expected this kind of open affection from him, this warmth and reassurance, after the hellish route of denial and pain they took to get here in the first place. But if she weren’t already fully, 100% in love with this man, she would’ve fallen their third night together, when he’d spent a ridiculously long time cataloging everything he loved about her and her body.

She shivers a little, just remembering that, and Oliver dips his face to her neck and licks a hot stripe up to her ear, the movement jangling her earring. Her hands clench around her clutch -- he’s got an _excellent_ mouth. It’s not fair, but also she kind of loves it? 

He’s half-turned in his seat, more on her side of the car than his at this point, and she wonders absently if he’s even wearing a seatbelt. She should chastise him, make him buckle up and take his hands off of her. Really soon, she should do that. She tilts her head sideways to give him a better angle. “I’m also right,” he breathes into her ear. 

It takes her a moment to even figure out what he’s talking about, what he’s supposedly right about, and then she remembers. She remembers Oliver in her living room, slipping his suit jacket off and dropping it over the arm of the couch as he stood there, staring down at her with heat in his eyes. She remembers the low, suggestive tone in his voice when he said she looked spectacular. She remembers him carefully and methodically unclasping his cufflinks and dropping them onto the end table with a clatter. She remembers how turned on she was by the time he’d started to roll up his sleeves, crisp white fabric against his tanned skin, and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

She shifts in her seat, and Oliver’s fingers inch further up her thigh, beneath her dress.

Felicity’s gaze jumps to the driver, who’s carefully ignoring them, not even glancing in the rearview mirror as he drives. She lowers her voice and says, “You just keep telling yourself that.” It’s very, very hard to keep her hands off of him, but she’s not convinced her nails are fully dry, and as much as she would like to reciprocate for his little living room sexcapade, they’re probably only ten minutes away from the museum.

And the press. And the unforgiving flashbulbs.

Ugh.

“Felicity?” Oliver murmurs, his breath hot along her jaw.

“Yeah?”

“You have lipstick in your bag, right?”

Puzzled, Felicity blinks. “Yeah. Why--?”

His lips are on hers, open and seeking and a little desperate, and she’s reminded again that he gave her an incredible orgasm and refused to let her take care of him. She’s also reminded that for all that he had his fingers and lips and tongue all over her while she writhed on her couch trying to keep her hands off of him, he hasn’t actually kissed her until now. 

She loses herself in the kiss, moaning into his mouth, her arms twining around his neck to yank him closer. She loves the feel of his solid weight against her, _on_ her, and she tips a little toward the door and he follows, his fingers digging into her hips. 

It’s awkward and perfect and she gives a passing thought to her hair, relieved that she’d decided to wear it down in loose waves. Probably whatever damage they’re doing to the waves won’t be too obvious. Just like the damage from her writhing around on her couch was mostly not noticeable. You know, hopefully. She’s perfectly willing to be on some worst-hair lists if he just keeps doing what he’s doing.

But then Oliver is leaning back away from her, ending the kiss and breathing hard as he closes his eyes. “Give me a minute,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, and it makes Felicity want to unzip his pants and just climb right onto him, driver and untinted windows be damned. 

She must make some desperate kind of noise, because Oliver looks over to her, wide-eyed, his gaze flicking between her eyes and her mouth. Which, yeah, is kind of hanging open a little to accommodate all the panting. God, she really hopes the Queen drivers sign enforceable non-disclosure agreements. 

Oliver groans. “You’re killing me.”

Felicity gapes at him. “Are you kidding, Mr. Handsy Guy? Who had whose hand up whose skirt?” Because literally all she’s done so far is writhe around and not touch him and probably moan a lot and then finally kiss him a little bit. 

And then Oliver is laughing, leaning closer to press another kiss to her mouth, but keeping it relatively chaste this time. “I love you.”

She can’t help but smile back. “I love you.” He’s ridiculously handsome, but when he smiles, when he _really_ smiles -- he’s beautiful.

Oliver holds her gaze until the car starts to slow, then glances out the window and back to her. “You ready?”

Felicity jerks her head around, scanning the street -- Oh. “We’re here,” she says, starting to panic again. “Um…”

She feels Oliver’s shoulder pressed against hers as he murmurs, his tone playful, “Do you need a distracting hand up your skirt?”

Grinning at his cheekiness, she tilts her head back against his. “What would you do if I said yes?”

“I’d tell the driver to circle the block a few times,” Oliver answers immediately. “And I’d put you on my lap and bring you off with my fingers. You’re never more stunning than right after an orgasm.”

“Oliver!” she says, but she’s laughing. And also, you know, pretty much burning with lust. “Let’s just… get this over with.” She’s breathing a little too quickly, and digs her lipstick and compact out to retouch before the car slides to a stop. She can already see the strobe-like flash of the photographers, and her exuberance is quickly fading in favor of near-panic.

“Remember,” Oliver says, reaching for her hand before he opens the door, his intense blue gaze boring into her. “I love you, you’re beautiful, and there’s a side exit whenever you’re ready.”

Felicity blinks. “A side exit?”

Oliver points up the street and Felicity leans her head to see -- the Starling Grande Hotel. She huffs a laugh. “Seriously?”

He meets her gaze and quirks an eyebrow, before leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Once we’re past the press, we can disappear for a little while. This is a long event -- there’s cocktails, then dinner, then an auction. That’s way too long.” He quirks a very suggestive eyebrow. “I’m not going to be able to wait until we get home,” he says, and opens the car door.

Oliver steps out, buttons his suit jacket, and turns, reaching his hand back to help her out of the car. Felicity knows she should be nervous. She would’ve expected herself to be rambling or tripping over herself or _something_ unforgivably embarrassing. But she can’t tear her gaze from Oliver’s face as she accepts his help, unfolding herself from the car and pausing to smooth her dress. She can’t stop thinking about the hotel, even as the flashbulbs blind her and they take slow, halting steps toward the door.

She can’t concentrate on the questions yelled by the press, because every few feet, Oliver leans closer to her to whisper how he wants to peel her dress off of her, how he might not have the patience to undress her at all, how all he can think about is her mouth. She’s sure she’s flushed, but she’s also smiling genuinely, because how could she not be?

As soon as they reach the relative quiet and calm of the museum foyer, Felicity threads her fingers through his and presses against him, leaning up on her toes to whisper, “I’m not going to be able to wait until after dinner.” His grip on her tightens and she grins. “Let’s go.”

Oliver chokes a little, but he says, “Thank God,” and pulls her toward a darkened hallway.

END


End file.
